Cover
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Rogue's hand comes out to catch his weight as he stumbles, to save him from colliding with...a man, wide-eyed and breathless and gorgeous, glowing white and gold in the poor lighting granted by the moon overhead." Rogue's routine is disrupted.


Maybe it's Rogue's fault for not paying more attention to his surroundings. There's nothing remarkable about the day thus far - he showed up for work in the grey-lit haze of dawn, stepped into the comforting, almost-dusty air of the library, and has been there all day, preferring to eat lunch in one of the side offices rather than venturing out to purchase something. By the time he is ready to leave the sun has set, the streets are cast into washed-out yellow by streetlights, and he has a few blocks to walk to get to his apartment complex for dinner and sleep. It's a straightforward process, made easy with the effect of routine, and he's not thinking about much of anything as he leaves the building and turns onto the main street to make his way home.

Maybe it's the routine that distracts him, that keeps his head down and his eyes on the sidewalk even when there's distant shouting and the sound of running footsteps. Rogue has a tendency to lose himself in his own thoughts, he knows, but it's never been a problem before, has often served to keep him out of trouble he might otherwise have been caught in. So he doesn't pay attention to the voices, doesn't realize the footsteps are approaching, and when a hand closes bruise-tight on his arm it comes before he realizes he has company.

He would scream, if he were the sort of person to scream when frightened. But Rogue has always been prone to freezing in silent terror, which is what he does now, jerks in a burst of adrenaline while his body seizes up in the first rush of panic.

"Come on!" a voice is saying, a hand shoving at his arm. "Come on, come on, this way!" There's pressure, too strong to be ignored, and Rogue is stumbling in natural obedience before he's able to parse who is speaking. His feet skid against the sidewalk, that force too strong to be resisted urging him sideways, and then the streetlight glow is gone, given way to the dark of one of the sidestreets.

Rogue has the crystal-clear sense, then, that he's being robbed, that he's being dragged into the shadows by a thief interested in what minimal money he has on him at the time. Even that thought doesn't still his movements; he's committed to the action, now, his natural avoidance of confrontation too strong to give him voice to resist now. But there's something wrong, he's not being pinned up against a wall with the threat of a knife or a gun - in fact he's being pulled in the _other_ direction, the aggressive stranger backing up against a wall and dragging Rogue in after. Rogue's hand comes out to catch his weight as he stumbles, to save him from colliding with...a man, wide-eyed and breathless and _gorgeous_ , glowing white and gold in the poor lighting granted by the moon overhead.

"Cover me," he says, panting for air between the words, and Rogue doesn't know what that means but the hand at his arm is pulling away, there are fingers reaching out to drag into his hair, and when he's pulled in sharply his mouth collides with the other's before he can think.

Rogue jerks back instantly, mouth aching with the force of the contact and eyes going wide and startled. " _Sorry_ ," he starts, the first words he's managed since being pulled aside, his cheeks burning with instant embarrassment. "I didn't-"

"I _did_ ," the other hisses, and he's ducking sideways, peering past Rogue's bracing arm at the street. "Quick, quick, they're coming, kiss me again."

" _What_?" Rogue chokes, but there are fingers still in his hair, contact sliding against the back of his neck, and the stranger is dragging him back in while Rogue is still sputtering, pressing his mouth in against Rogue's before pulling him back closer to the wall. They're close, they're too close, Rogue can feel the other's inhales shift in the shoulders pressed against him, and his mouth is _warm_ , damp and soft and then he _licks_ against Rogue's mouth and Rogue jolts away again, shocked into action by the unexpected contact.

" _Fuck_ ," the stranger gasps. "I need you to _cover_ me, kiss me like you mean it or they'll catch me."

Rogue's mouth is open, his heart hammering in his chest, and speech of any kind is well beyond him, much less the ability to tell this stranger's white-blond hair and pale eyes - blue, they must be blue - that he's never kissed _anyone_ , much less learned how to 'kiss like he means it.' But he's being pulled in again, the stranger is tipping his mouth up like an invitation, and Rogue can't make himself accept but he can't persuade himself to resist either, not with the unstoppable force of those hands pressed up into his hair. He goes, eyes wide and breath catching, and then he's _kissing_ the stranger, or being kissed, is probably more accurate. There's heat at his mouth, lips working against his, and this time when there's the slide of a tongue against the gap between his lips Rogue tentatively opens his mouth.

That seems to be the right thing to do. There's a purr from the other - and Rogue can feel it, like he's swallowing the sound down his throat to curl hot in his chest - and the fingers slide deeper into his hair, the stranger turning his head to fit himself in closer. Rogue attempts an echo of this, shifting his head in the opposite direction, and there's another noise, a tiny hum of appreciation at his lips. He shuts his eyes, some delayed reaction in his head telling him he's supposed to - and everything surges hotter, like cutting off his sight has sent all his other senses into overdrive. He can taste the other's mouth, something sour and sweet at once like fresh lemonade sparkling over his tongue, can smell a suggestion of wine or smoke against pale skin. His body is hot, pinned between Rogue's chest and the wall at his back, and Rogue is sure his heart is beating loud enough to hear, thudding so wildly in his throat the other must be able to feel each pulse of blood through his veins.

Rogue doesn't hear the thud of footsteps slow at the end of the alley, barely registers the shout of inquiry or the flash of light sweeping over them before retreating again. His head is swimming, thoughts too hazy to piece into coherency, and the stranger against him doesn't move away; if anything his hold goes softer, his shoulders relaxing a little further against the wall so Rogue fits better against him. Rogue's heart doesn't slow, his adrenaline doesn't fade - even when the other man pulls away from him after some minutes it takes him a moment to blink himself back into focus, and he's breathing so hard he can hear every breath sticking in his throat. The stranger stares at him for a moment, his moonlight-pale eyes half-lidded and blinking slow - then he looks sideways, swallows and licks his lips as he gazes out at the street.

"I think they're gone," he manages. His mouth is moving remarkably slowly, Rogue thinks, and then realizes that he's staring and starts to flush before rationality can point out the illogic of that. The other looks back up, blinks slowly again; his fingers in Rogue's hair slide down, trailing sensation against the back of Rogue's neck. "Thanks."

"Um," Rogue says with what he feels is commendable clarity, given that he's not sure he can stay standing with the wave of dizzy adrenaline in him.

"You're a good kisser," the other says, gaze sliding away from Rogue's eyes to land at his mouth.

Rogue can feel his blush sweep out over his cheeks, spreading hot over his face and down across his collarbones. "Uh," he says. "Thanks?"

The eyes come back up to his. There's a beat of hesitation; then a smile, bright like the sun, and Rogue's gravity dips out and away from under him.

"I'm Sting," the stranger says, that smile still clinging to the corner of his mouth. His teeth are sharp, bright white even in the dim lighting. "You are?"

"I," Rogue says. "Rogue."

"Rogue," Sting repeats back, smile going wider. There's movement, friction at Rogue's neck, and then a hand, awkwardly angled to fit in the nonexistent space between them. "Nice to meet you, Rogue."

It takes Rogue a moment to process the offer, another to fumble his hand down to match Sting's and curl into a handshake. His heart is still fluttering like bird's wings, his thoughts still too scattered to collect. But Sting is grinning at him, glowing bright like light itself, and his palm is warm against Rogue's.

And his other hand is still tangled into Rogue's hair.


End file.
